


La Petite Mort

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Farm Verse [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Accidents, Arguing, Autism, Disagreements, Dogs, Drowning, Family, Farm Verse, Fighting, Hospitals, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, Lafayette will think it’s fate.  A perfect storm.  A set of circumstances culminating into the worst case scenario.</p><p>The water is like a siren call.  </p><p>And sometimes it clings too tight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> I got prompted to hurt John in Farm Verse by Jennifer. But, C'est Le Vie is a happy fic, so here we have a Not-So Happy Fic.
> 
> This story takes place in between a few fics. 
> 
> VERY LONG stories short:  
> John/Lafayette are in a very long term relationship that started in college.  
> They both have a pain kink that they get off on, one that they try to hide around their adopted daughter.  
> Francine is John's little sister, not his biological daughter. She is autistic, and she became his adopted daughter after his father and her mother died in a car accident.  
> Hamilton/Burr/Madison are in a relationship, and are poly with John/Lafayette though John/Lafayette are more often on their own. 
> 
> This story picks up after chapter 16 in C'est Le Vie.  
> John's a marine biologist who goes on deep sea dives for research studies. Francine is upset with him for going out, feeling like he likes the sea better than them.  
> He's trying not to go out as much, but it's making him miserable.  
> It...might make more sense to read anything else first.

Afterwards, Lafayette will think it’s fate.  A perfect storm.  A set of circumstances culminating into the worst case scenario.

The water is like a siren call.  

Once John’s felt it back on his skin, he needs it.  Given their family’s history with addiction, Lafayette’s loathe to use the word, but he comes close more than once.  John’s fingers start twitching, his limbs jerk awkwardly.  He takes to pacing desperately.  He pushes Lafayette, and they fight (physically) more than they have in ages.

A part of Lafayette thrills at it.  He loves doing this again.  Loves putting his hands around John and pressing down.  Pinning him to the ground and taking what’s his.  Loves when John kicks and bites and scratches and fights right up until that moment of perfect submission where he _knows_ he’s been caught.

Like a fish in a trap.

A far more logical part of Lafayette is concerned.  John’s been against fighting this hard with Francine in the house for years.  She caught them once.  Had started crying when she watched John punch Lafayette brutally in the chest.  Lafayette had loved the sensation, the fight as a whole.  But the way John’s head snapped around, eyes wide and mouth open, had haunted his nightmares for months.

He knows John still wonders if that was the night Francine started pulling away.  For seeing something she didn’t understand.  They can’t prove it.  It’ll never come up again.  But Lafayette wonders.  John wonders.

They haven’t fought like this in years.

John substituted one method of release for another, and his ability to cope has been tarnished.  Diving gave him peace.  Relief.  Bliss.  A moment out of his head where no one could bother him.  Where he only found joy.  It’s gone, and now he’s overreacting.  Over compensating.  Violent and angry and having mood swings that set Lafayette’s teeth on edge.  Eager to fight, but knowing they _can’t._  It’s not what either of them really want.  Not anymore.  Not now.

Not that that stops them.

“Why don’t you swim in the pond?” Lafayette asks John, trailing his fingers up and down John’s spine.  Tracing the bruising and circling the scratch lines. John’s been staring out the window for nearly an hour.  Drool sliding from his mouth.  “Edgar won’t mind.”  The turtle generally leaves them alone if they approach the pond without food.  Lafayette can’t imagine it bothering John if he does a few laps.  Dives to the bottom.

It’s twenty feet deep.  There’s more than enough space down there for John to go under and splash about if he wanted to.  “I could throw in treasures, and you could fish them out for me.”  Lafayette kisses down John’s vertebrae, smoothing muscles beneath his palms.  

“The dogs don’t like it when I swim…” John mumbles.  He’s dreamy.  He snuggles back up against Lafayette.  Tilts his head into Lafayette’s chin.  “They whine...tryta get me out...s’dangerous.”  It is.  Bert and Ernie bark and whine and complain.  They stand on the shore until they try to swim after John and if they try hard enough, they’ll push him under.  They’d tried swimming a couple times, but then decided it wasn’t worth it.

“Keep them inside then. You’re a strong enough swimmer.  You don’t need them out there with you anyway.”  He probably wouldn’t say it to anyone else.  And if Francine heard it, she’d pitch a fit.  They were always telling her she couldn’t do anything without a chaperone, especially swimming.  That John had blanket permission, she’d just hold that against him too.

Lafayette reaches around and starts palming John loosely.  His husband was already stated, but  it was nice to touch.  Nice to keep him cozy and extend the high for a little longer.  “I’ll watch you from inside,” Lafayette promises.  “You’ll be safe.”

John sighs loosely, tears slipping from his eyes.  He’s asleep before he even realizes he’s hard.  Lafayette curls around him.  Kissing promises into his skin.  

***

They have a plan.

John and Lafayette wake up at five and go for a run.  It feels like college again, and even though Lafayette bemoans his habit of sleeping in, it’s strangely refreshing to wake up early.  Once the routine is set, he even has trouble remembering why he started sleeping in in the first place.  He’s certain it had to do with Francine, though he cannot fathom how.

But they wake up at five.  Go for a run with Bert and Ernie.  Get back to the house by six.  John stretches and bounces on his toes and dives into the pond like a seal fleeing a predator’s jaws.  Lafayette watches him from the kitchen window as he starts cooking breakfast for them all.  Edith Piaf playing lightly as John swims laps.  Kicks down to the bottom of the pond and then back up.  

He’s back inside by six forty-five to shower. Toweling off and dressed by the time Francine comes bounding down the stairs at seven.  

The plan works.

John’s calmer than he’s been in months. The edge of despair that had been digging into his soul starts blunting.  He tries harder with Francine, even though she’s still suspicious about him. Still glaring at him or picking fights because she’s a teenager, and an awkward one at that.  It’s amazing how hurtful someone can be using sign language.  But Francine seems to relish in seeing how fast she can make John leave the table.

He’ll sit down and join them.  Smile at her and ask how she slept, and it’s like dangling fresh meat before a bear.  She’s sharp lines and scowling fury.  

 _“At least my_ real _daddy loved me.”_ She doesn’t mean it the way John took it.  Lafayette knows that.  John probably knows it too.  Francine has no frame of reference for that comment.  She thinks she’s making an attack on how John obviously doesn’t love her.  She doesn’t know she’s stabbing a fleshy wound that never healed.

John recoils so badly his chair skitters against the floor.  He’s shoving from the table and fleeing before Francine can even figure out what she’d said wrong.  “Bad girl,” Lafayette tells her darkly.  He stands too.  “Clean up and go to school.”

 _“He always runs away,”_ she signs.

And getting farther by the minute, Lafayette doesn’t add.  His hands are opening and closing at his sides.  “Shockingly, that doesn’t mean it’s okay to push him to do so.” He doesn’t bother signing. She can understand him just fine.  Her lips press tight together.  “You’re grounded. Go to school.”

The two points aren’t related, but the bus will be there soon. He can work out her punishment while she’s gone.  Preferably _after_ he’s kept John from self destructing. Francine slams her hands against the table and stomps out, whistling for Bert and Ernie to walk her to the bus.  

She’s even less pleasant tomorrow morning.

John refuses to get up to run/swim that day, and it feels like things cannot possibly get worse.  “Stop it,” Lafayette grumbles.  Pushing at John’s arm.  “Come on.  This is our schedule.  Our routine.  You’ll feel better if you get up.”

“There’s no _point,_ Gil.”  John rarely uses his first name.  Lafayette’s shoulders slump.  Depression finally bursting through all John’s efforts.  

“Go swimming, please.  For the love of God, go swimming.”  John doesn’t reply.  Just pulls the blankets over his head and refuses to leave bed.

He sleeps through the day.  Calls in sick the next two days, and Lafayette strongly considers murder.

His parents counsel him to be patient, Francine will come around.  Pierre promises to talk to John. From the quiet hum of words in the bedroom, Lafayette assumes he was successful.  John comes toddling down the stairs with a blanket around his shoulders.  

Lafayette holds him tight through the night.  Begs with him the following morning to get out of bed.  At least eat something, please.  He gets an exhausted nod, and John slips into his shorts and shirt.  Quietly following Lafayette as they go outside.

They run slow.  More of an extended walk than anything else.  Lafayette keeps an eye on John’s exhaustion, and it seems like he’s not too tired.  His body is used to fighting like this, so he doesn’t falter.  

He pauses at the pond, though, sighing heavily as he rubs the anchor pendant around his neck. “You feel better when you swim,” Lafayette tells him.  “Just for a little while.  You’ll feel better.”

John nods slowly, and starts getting in the water.  The dogs whine unhappily, but Lafayette guides them back to the house.  It’ll be okay.  It’ll be okay.

Francine is up early when he steps in the door.  Watching him with a frown on her features.  “What?” he asks her.

 _“He loves water more than us,”_ Francine signs.

Okay. Enough is enough.

“He _does not_ love the water more than us.  He swims because it helps calm him down.”

 _“Thought_ we _calmed him?”_ She’s being a brat.  She doesn’t understand what John’s troubles are.  They don’t talk about how she remembers only a few scattered images of her parents.  About how John’s done nothing to explain his own circumstances with their father.  She thinks their father was a hero.

John’s not callous enough to tell her otherwise.

The dogs are whining at the backdoor, and Lafayette snaps for them to leave it alone.  Go lay down.  Enough.  “You need to cut him some slack.  He’s doing his best.”  Lafayette tries.  There is nothing in the parenting handbook when it comes to this.  Nothing on websites about how to deal with your teenager properly.

Everyone contradicts each other.  

Francine crosses her arms over her chest and she taps her foot.  Looking in the opposite direction and openly sulking as the dogs circle about at the backdoor.   _“Couché!”_ he snaps again, and Bert lays down but Ernie still whines and paws at the door.

Hands start flying as Francine gets annoyed, _“They want out.”_

“They don’t get to _go_ out,” Lafayette tells her.  They were just outside a few minutes ago, they didn’t need to pee.  They’re just upset John’s swimming.  Head aching, Lafayette rubs at his eyes.

His daughter starts arguing with him, and it’s rude and hurtful.  But he doesn’t open his eyes to read her signs.  Just keeps them closed and pressing against his temples.  Trying to remind himself that she doesn’t understand what she did, and John doesn’t want to explain his father to anyone, let alone _her._  “You need to apologize to him,” he says thickly.  “What you said wasn’t _right,_ it hurt him badly.  You need to apologize.”

She’s rocking back and forth on her heels and toes and grinding her teeth at him.  The dogs have broken their down and are back to pawing at the door.  And then—of all things, the phone starts ringing.  Lafayette hisses a curse, and turns his back.  Snatching the phone from the receiver and flicking it on.  “What?” he barks into it.  It’s six thirty in the morning, who the hell is calling them—

“Um…”  Alex.  Of course.  “Bad time?”

Francine stomps out of the kitchen just as Lafayette turns to look and the dogs are still whining, and Lafayette cannot help but ask if Alex wants to come over for breakfast.  And by that, come over and deal with Francine, because he’s about ready to explode.  

At least the dogs have stopped whining.

“I mean.  I could?”  Alex offers.  “I was checking in on John to be honest?  He didn’t sound so good last night?”

“He and Francine are still fighting,” Lafayette replied.  What is it?  Friday?  No.  It’s Saturday.  Which means that there’s no school.  No work.  “Can you come? Spend time with her? I’ll take John out.” See if he can break through the miasma that’s been drenching his soul. Pierre had at least motivated him to get out of bed, but this can’t keep going on.  It needs to stop.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Goodbyes exchanged, Lafayette sets the phone to the side and leans against the counter.  Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  There’s something in the distance.  A strange high-pitched tone that Lafayette can’t quite place.  He listens to it for a moment, eyes closed.  Breathing hard as he tries to balance himself.  Francine starts to scream.

Eyes snapping open, he looks up at the window leading outside. Francine’s standing in the yard, halfway between the house and the pond.  Bert and Ernie—

_Fuck!_

Lafayette shoves away from the counter.  He runs to the door.  Throwing it open and _sprinting._  Bert’s in the water with John, pushing him down.  Paws and claws panicking as he tries to get to John.  John’s a strong swimmer.  He is.  But he can’t tread water with a panicking pit-bull crawling on his head.  He keeps getting pushed under.  Can’t get a breath of air, he’s trying to come up, trying to break free, but he can’t seem to manage it right.  Bert’s pushing him down.  It’s an accident.  The dog’s freaking out.

John stops coming up.  

Francine is screaming.  Hands over ears.  Ernie’s howling louder and louder.  Bert keeps whining and howling and whining some more.  Paws striking the water as he tries to swim.  He’s going in circles looking for John, but John’s stopped rising.

Lafayette’s half way there, begging John to have just figured it out.  Dive and resurface away from the dog.  Come on John. Come on. Figure it out.

He hasn’t come back up.  

Lafayette’s muscles burn.  His arms pump backward and forward.  He’s gasping.  Choking for breath.  He reaches the makeshift dock and throws his jacket off. Cellphone clattering out of the pocket and across the wooden boards. He kicks his shoes off just as he reaches the end, and he dives.

Hands fold in perfect peak.  Body like a sword slicing through water.  He dives and opens his eyes in the putrid mud of the pond.  It burns.  It burns and stings, and it doesn’t matter one bit, because John was wearing bright red shorts, and Lafayette should be able to _see_ them.

Nothing.  

He swims up for air just before his lungs burst.  Bert’s angling for him now, but Lafayette’s under the surface before the dog has a chance to reach him.  Kicking hard, Lafayette looks and looks and—There!

Flash of red.  Tanned skin. Swimming hard, Lafayette wraps his arms around John’s body and lifts.  He stays as low as he can, angling to get to the shoreline before Bert realizes where they are.  He gets close enough.  His feet touch ground.

He stands up, hoisting John’s head above the water. Gasping for breath. John’s not breathing.  There’s blood on his face.  Three long lines, Bert’s claws dug in deep.  Must have knocked the wind out of him.  He hadn’t tried swimming under because he hadn’t had any breath to pull in. Caught on an exhale.   

Ernie comes toward them.  Whining and crying.  Bert too.  It’s not right.  It’s not proper.  Lafayette can’t care.  He strikes at both of them.   _“Get!”_ They startle. Backtracking.  Whimpering.  Francine’s still screaming.

Meltdown.

John’s not breathing.  “Call-call 911,” Lafayette fumbles. Tries to find a pulse.  “Call 911, call 911, call 911--” he’s chanting.  No pulse.  Francine’s still screaming.  Eyes closed.  Fists clenched in her hair.  Over her ears.   _“Frances! CALL 911!”_  She’s not moving.

Lafayette’s hands find John’s chest and he folds them over.  Depress.  Depress. Over and over and over again.  His daughter’s screaming.  Knees crumbled.  She’s rocking back and forth.  The dogs are whining.  Scared.  Sad.  Lafayette’s never hit them before.

The horses are watching from the pasture.  The cow’s head is poked out the barn.  Satan’s not slamming his horns into the fence post.  Everyone’s watching and waiting.  But no one moves toward the phone.  No one makes the call.

Depress.  Depress.  Still chanting - “Call 911, call 911, c’mon John.  Breathe…” Water pulses from John’s mouth, but his lungs don’t draw air. His heart remains frozen.  “Breathe John, breathe.”

Lafayette leans over.  Presses his mouth to John’s and exhales hard.  Depress.  Depress.  Look up to Francine.  Rocking back and forth. Eyes closed.  Tears streaming.  Snot dribbling over her bottom lip.  She’s scared.   _John’s still not breathing._

Depress. Depress harder.  Faster.  He’s doing it wrong but he doesn’t care.  He shouts at John.  Don’t do this.  Don’t do this.  You’re a fucking deep sea diver, John, what are you doing drowning in a pond?

There’s a car pulling up the drive.   _Alex._ Thank God for fucking Alex--

Lafayette breathes into John’s mouth.  Rocks back on his heels and starts depressing.  Car door open.  “Laf--”

 _“Call 911!”_ he shouts.  He doesn’t look up.  Doesn’t need to. John’s skin is grey.  His cut pulses with each depression of his chest, but it’s not enough.  It’s not right.  Forming a fist, Lafayette slams the flat side of his hand down onto John’s chest.  Again.  Again.  Again--

_Cough._

Lafayette’s still in motion.  Still getting ready to strike once more, but he redirects it.  Lets it carry him forward so he’s bracketing John’s body.  Fingers digging into the ground.  John’s lungs are expanding.  Contracting.  His eyes stay closed, but his cut is bleeding normally again.  Lafayette fumbles.  Touches John’s throat.  Beat. Beat. Beat.

Fuck.  

_Fuck._

Lafayette’s arm gives out.  He rolls to his side.  Slumping next to John and breathing harshly.  His head is spinning dizzily.  His hands are shaking.  Alex is drawing closer.  Pale as a ghost.  “Is he--”

“He’s breathing,” Lafayette gets out.  He’s so cold.  

So fucking cold.

He shivers violently.  And Francine keeps screaming as the phone hangs limply in Alex’s hand.  It takes nearly twenty minutes for the Ambulance to come.

***

John’s kept overnight at the hospital.  He regained consciousness in the ambulance, eyes traveling meekly through cracked lids.  His fingers jerked at his side, and Lafayette was there.  He held them.  Squeezed John’s hand.  Stayed with him as they checked him over.  Pumped him full of antibiotics in hope that it’ll forestall anything else.   _Bacteria makes for a bad bedfellow,_ John had told him once.

Bacteria gives John pneumonia.  But the four broken ribs and a cracked sternum didn’t help either.   _Good job, Lafayette,_ he scolds himself viciously.   _Well done._

“Saved my life...didn’t you?” John mutters when he catches him sulking.  

“Shut up.  You don’t get to talk.  You’re never allowed to do anything again.  Shut up.  I hate you.  Keep your mouth closed.” John smiles and dozes, coughing wetly against Lafayette’s body.  

Lafayette wants to kill their dog.  It’s irrational and stupid.  They _knew_ Bert couldn’t swim with John.  But it doesn’t stop the wanting.  Doesn’t stop the need to retaliate.  Aaron and Madison both call, but Lafayette doesn’t want to talk to them.  Let Alex manage it.  Let Alex manage the kid and the dogs and the farm and everything else.

Lafayette’s not leaving the bloody hospital without his husband.

He spends hours tracing John’s skin.  Inspecting the bruises on his chest.  The flushed color that stains his cheeks.  He sweats with fever, and he get pumped full of drugs.  Sleeping soundly through the worst of it, and somewhat off kilter for the rest.

Text messages tell them that Francine’s been screaming for days.  She’s made herself sick.  She’s breaking things that are handed to her.  Throwing glasses and plates and refusing to eat.  She cries herself to sleep and she’s not even bothering to sign.  Just shouting wordlessly.  

There’s an implied request in those text messages.  Please come home and deal with your kid.  But Lafayette can’t think about that.  He turns off his phone.  He keeps an arm around John’s body.  John was _dead._ His heart had stopped.  His lungs were filled with water.  It’s an answer to every nightmare Lafayette ever had when John’s job.

That his ship would sink in a storm, and they’d never even find the body.  Even if they did, it’d just be fish eaten remains.  And maybe he could accept that.  In time.  He could have accepted that.  But he can’t accept John lying in _their_ yard, by _their_ pond, _drowned,_ because _their_ dog pushed him under.  Can’t shake the memory, that if John did die at sea...Lafayette knows exactly what he’ll look like.  

Sickly grey and waterlogged.  Blood at his brow.

Lafayette holds John tight and he shivers.  Can’t seem to stop shivering.  He pulls up the blanket and tries to keep them warm.  He doesn’t want to go home.

***

“She’s scared, Gil.” Aaron is like an angel on his shoulder.  Sitting there with his harp and halo.  Strumming sweet melodies that Lafayette has no interest in hearing.  “She’s scared, and she thinks she killed him.” She let the dogs out.  He told her not to.  He told her not to, and she did it anyway.  “She didn’t do it on purpose.” It doesn’t matter.  John’s-- “Going to be fine.”

Lafayette twists.  He looks up at Aaron and glares at him.  “He almost wasn’t.  He almost wasn’t and--”

“And what? She’s your _daughter._  Were you going to blame her for it?  Tell her how she killed her father, how it’s all her fault? John’s spent his life thinking that his mother died because of him, so hell.  Why not make it a family affair?”  Lafayette grits his teeth and clenches his fists.  Aaron’s not done talking.  “And maybe you let that guilt grow.  Let that hate fester.  Maybe one day she doesn’t listen again, and it’s something small, but you smack her one because _how hard can it be?_  You tell her _this_ is how her father died, and you let that sink into her brain so she’s never rid of it. _”_

The words are revolting.  The accusation is horrifying.  And the worst part about it--he can _see_ it happening.  He can see himself letting it fester.  Letting the anger grow.  Can see himself avoiding her until he _has_ to be near her.  Can see himself making mistake after mistake.  Until he doesn’t even want to be near her.  Until he’d rather just let her live her life somewhere else, because all he’ll see when he looks at her is what she did.  “She made a mistake, Gilbert.”

Lafayette squeezes his eyes shut.  It doesn’t help.  Flash of red at the bottom of a pond.  Screams echoing in his ears.  Begging for her to call 911, but she doesn’t.  She just cries.  “You made John a promise when you adopted her.  When you married him.  You _promised_ that she’d be first.  No matter what.   _This_ is no matter what, Gil.”

“It’s not fair,” Lafayette gets out.  John’s sleeping through this whole conversation.  Rattling lungs coughing phlegm and sick.  

Aaron steps forward.  He doesn’t touch Lafayette.  But he gets close enough to do so if need be.  “‘No matter what’ is an easy phrase to say when you’re happy.  When things are good.  But when you have to make a choice that’s hard?  When you have to put your love for _him_ aside, and choose _her_ because _that’s_ what needs to happen?  It’s hard.  But you made that promise.  You made that choice.  She’s your daughter, Gil.  You need to go home.”

But what if John’s pneumonia gets worse?  What if the drugs stop helping?  What if the broken ribs _Lafayette_ gave John trying to push life back into his chest suddenly puncture his lungs? What if John’s heart stops beating?  It stopped once before, what if it decides to stop again?  “I’ll be here,” Aaron promises.  “I’ll stay here with him.  I’ll call you if something happens.  But he’s doing better.  He’s going to be fine.  He’s going to go home soon.  But you need to go home first.  Your daughter needs you.”

“I...if I go...I don’t know it I’ll make it worse.”

“Your daughter hasn’t eaten anything in two days and she’s completely non-verbal.  For fuck’s sake, just give the girl a hug.  Tell her John’s all right.  If we thought seeing him would have helped we’d have brought her, but we couldn’t get her in a damn car if we tried.”

She’s bad then. Really bad.  Lafayette feels his stomach squeeze painfully.  It’s the first time in over a decade that they haven’t been there for her when she’s like this.  They haven’t got her blanket or played her music.  Gotten on the floor and talk soothing and slow.  Turn off the lights and wait until the sensory overload has stopped.  Hug and cuddle when she wants the pressure.  

They’ve always been there for her.  John’s always been there for her.

 _Damn it._ Aaron Burr has an annoying way of always being right.  John made him promise.  Made him promise that Francine would always be first.  “Go home,” Aaron repeats.  “I got this watch.”

And if Lafayette hugs Aaron tight, exchanges a brief kiss as Aaron cups the back of his head?

No one’s there to see.

***

The house is a wreck.

Hurricane Francine tore the books off the walls and the furniture is knocked over and broken.  A window’s cracked.  There’s a pile of swept glass on the floor.  The dogs are nowhere to be seen.  Madison is sitting on the couch.  It’s the one piece of furniture that seemed to have survived, though it’s been moved.  He must have upended it and collapsed onto the cushions the moment he could.

He’s pressing a sippy cup filled with ice water to his head.  It’s one of those non-breakable kinds that were a holdover from Francine’s childhood. “You look like hell,” Lafayette tells him quietly.  His friend just smiles faintly.  Wincing as he stands and sets the cup down.

“Surprised Aaron got you out of there,” James tells him.  Strong arms wrap around Lafayette’s body.  Pulling him in close. His hugs are warm.  Aggressive.  He holds onto Lafayette like Lafayette’s about to drift away.  

He wants to.  A part of him wants to keep checking his phone.  Is vibrate still on?  Did the phone somehow go into silent?  Is his volume turned up?  Is he sure?  Instead of checking, he asks: “She hasn’t eaten?”

Apparently Alex tried getting her to eat at least four times.  He ended up wearing the last one.  It made Alex cry, and then the dogs started whining again. “It’s been a mess.”  Yeah.  Lafayette can see that.  Exhaustion creeps in at his bones, but still.  He drags himself to the kitchen.  Hunts down their apples and a knife.  “She didn’t want those earlier,” he’s advised.

“She’ll want them now.”

He cuts the apples exactly as she likes them.  Arranges them on a plate and finds a jar of emergency peanut butter in the back cabinet.  Gets some cinnamon too.  She likes that.  He feels like he’s floating.  Like the world is spinning beneath his feet and he’s just along for the ride.  He hates that feeling.

Walking up the stairs, he finds Alex sitting on the floor by Francine’s door.  Knees pulled up to his chest.  He’s obviously been there for a while.  Lafayette kneels down and sets the plate to the side.  It’s so easy to fit Alex against his chest.  Thanking him quietly again and again for getting the ambulance there.  For trying even when Francine was being difficult.  “John’s okay,” Lafayette says.  He’s not sure if he believes it entirely, but he says it anyway.

There’s more he wants to say to Alex, more he wants to express, but there’s no time.  Or rather.  Now’s not the time.  Later.  They’ll talk later.  Picking up the plate, he presses open Francine’s door.  The lights are off, but he can hear her thumping.  Head tapping against the wall.  Not hard.  But she shouldn’t be doing it for an extended period of time.

Lafayette tracks the sound.  Navigating around the mess she’s made of her room, until he finds her curled up under her weighted blanket.  She’s hiding even as she rocks.  “Hey pretty lady,” he murmurs to her.  Plate once more on the ground.  The blanket comes up over her head, and she stares at him.  He opens his arms, and she goes.

Crawling and scrambling.  Head pressed against his collarbone, hands in his hair.  She’s crying, and her limbs are flopping awkwardly.  But that’s fine.  That’s okay.  He can adjust that.  He fixes their position.  Gets her legs out so they’re not crumpled beneath her.  Has her sit on his lap properly, curled up like when she was a baby.  

It’s not the time to talk.  Not the time to go over any of it. He hums _Frere Jacques_  to her and he pulls the blanket over them both.  Rocking her gently and squeezing her close so she doesn’t need to worry about a thing.  

He doesn’t mind when she doesn’t speak.  Doesn’t mind when she only grunts for grumbles.  Signs lost and haphazard.  That’s fine too.  She repeats a few words.  Hands twisting angrily into position.   _Hate.  Dog._ “You don’t hate Bert,” Lafayette sighs.  He doesn’t either.  He’s just sad.  Exhausted.  He just wants John to come home.

Francine signs _I do, I do, I do, I do,_ and Lafayette doesn’t argue.  Okay.  She does.  They’ll figure that out later too.  For now, he hands her pieces of apple and she chews them.  Swallows.  Goes to sleep in his arms.  

In the morning, Francine’s calm. More calm, at least.  She helps Lafayette clean up.  She assists him in the kitchen with making breakfast for Alex and Madison.  Both of them having spent the night in the guest room.  She’s quiet and withdrawn, but she follows his orders and she cuts the fruit.  Sets them to the side.  Makes places for her Uncles.  

Aaron calls and tells them John’s doing fine.  He should be good to go home soon.  They just want to double check that his chest is well enough to handle being out of a hospital environment.  But his scans are coming back more clear, and it’s not like they can do anything to help his ribs heal faster.  And John can take antibiotics at home.

There are people Lafayette needs to call.  Appointments to set up.  Francine’s speech therapist her school.  Their Social Worker who helps with Francine’s meltdowns when they spiral out of control like this.  He should call his parents too.  God, they’re going to fly right over if he does.  Still. He hasn’t gone to work in days, he needs to call the studio.  He needs to call John’s job too. They’ll probably laugh themselves silly.

_Diver Drowns in Local Pond._

Hilarious headline.

“You wanna make the house nice for Pot?” Alex asks.  It’s been so long since she called John that.  She’s been signing his full name out for half a year now, and Lafayette knows it hurts him.

But she doesn’t complain about it now.  Just nods her head and helps Alex clean the mess she made.  When they’re done, she goes back to reading Grey’s Anatomy in her room.  Like nothing happened.  Like everything’s fine.  “Dogs’re out back,” James tells him.  “She was hitting them…So...” Of course she was.  Francine blamed the dogs for what happened.  And it’s not like _he’d_ done much better.  

But...there’s always one more thing. And he’s exhausted.

Sighing, Lafayette walks out to the barn.  The dogs have been locked into the saddle room.  And they cower when Lafayette opens the door.  They scurry toward him, but do so skulking.  Bodies low to the ground and nervous.  It’s finally too much.

Alone in the barn, with his weird dogs and their smushed up faces, Lafayette sits on the ground and cries. Get it all out now, he tells himself.  Because he can’t let anyone else see. “It’s not your fault,” he tells Bert.  “It’s not.” He hugs the pit close.  Pets his gnarled fur and scarred skin.  “You didn’t know it was wrong.”

What they had here was a failure to communicate.  

John and Francine hadn’t been talking.

Lafayette hadn’t explained why Francine shouldn’t let the dogs out.

Francine hadn’t been able to say something was wrong.

The dogs didn’t understand John was fine in the water.

Mistake after mistake after mistake.

It’s not their fault.

It’s not Francine’s fault.

It’s not John or Lafayette’s fault.

But he’s still going to cry about it.  And no one’s here to tell him to stop.

***

Aaron drives John home.  They get there in the evening.  Lafayette’s got a soup on the stove for him, and the house doesn’t look quite so bad.  The dogs are still in the barn, Francine’s not mentally prepared to accept them right now.  Lafayette adds it to the list of things they’ll need to work on in the coming days. But John’s home.  

Alex helps him from the car, and John leans into his closest friend’s body.  Whispers soft words to him that’re only for their ears.  Lafayette watches from the porch.  He wants to touch him. Wants to hold him close.  Wants to keep him at his side and never let him go.

It’s magnetism.  John leaves Alex’s side.  He slowly walks up the front steps and tips into Lafayette’s body.  Sighing as he’s held.  Mumbling about how it’s not fair.  He’s got the bruises but he doesn’t remember it being any fun.  It makes Lafayette laugh.  Laugh and hold on tighter.  John’s going to have to wait _a long_ time before he gets anymore bruises.  These have turned Lafayette’s stomach sick and he’s going to need to get over that first.

Inside, Francine’s sitting at the table.  She’s got all of John’s textbooks thrown across it.  His CBA with his job.  A laptop too.  John hesitates in the doorway.  She looks up, but she doesn’t meet his eyes.  Just goes back to her books.  She tells him the statistics on drowning.  On trauma after drowning.  On phobias and fears.  Did you know?  Did you know?  Did you know?

The questions are horrible.  The comments are obscene.  But John relaxes despite all that.  He slides into the chair next to her and he listens to her.  One hand rubbing at the flesh above his heart.  He’s almost smiling.

Fond.

“Did you know…” he starts in reverse, before telling her about all the safety equipment on his ship.  She squints at him and listens.  He pulls up photos of his excursions.  Shows her the gear and the life boats.  Shows her the rooms and the checks and balances.  He teaches her about the flowcharts and the storm watchers.  He explains the radios and the GPS tracers.

He’s offered to explain it to her before, but she never seemed to care.  Never wanted to know anything about his job.  Just knew that he graduated college, they had to move, and when he went to work--sometimes he didn’t come home.

But now she’s interested.  Lafayette watches.  Listens as John explains the science behind his work.  He doesn’t dumb it down.  He doesn’t use layman's terms.  He uses the four syllable names, the chemistry, and biology he loves.  She knows all of it all ready.  All her research into medicine...it mixes well with what he knows.  And he explains it so she knows it.

“I’m safe out there, Francine,” John promises her.  “I’m so safe out there.  I’m not in any danger.”

She tells him the exact probability of danger he’s in, and he smiles at her.  “You can’t live life without risks.  Some risks are worth it.  What’s the probability of getting into a car accident? Of getting cancer?  Of being mugged?”  She doesn’t know, so they look it up.  “You see? I’m doing better than all that.  This was an accident.  And accidents happen.  We learn from them.  We try harder. But I’m here.  You and Kettle saved me, yeah?”

 _Didn’t save you.  Didn’t do anything._  She signs miserably.  

“You screamed for help.”

_Had meltdown._

“Doesn’t matter.  You screamed, you got his attention.  You helped.  You saved me.  You, baby girl.   _You_ saved me.  You did so good.  So good.  Thank you.  Thank you okay? Oh-don’t cry, c’mere.  C’mere.”  She comes.  She goes to her father and she holds him close. She sobs into his shoulder.  Apologizing brokenly.  Signing bad, mumbling words even worse.  She’s sorry for fighting with him.  Sorry for being mad.  She’s sorry. And even though Lafayette doesn’t think John’s done anything wrong at all, John still says, “Me too. Me too.  I’m sorry too.”

 _If ever there were a person, who emphasized what ‘no matter what’ meant,_ Lafayette thinks, _it’s John._

Quietly, Lafayette steps back out of the room, and he gives them their space.

He isn’t there when John lets the dogs back in the house.  When he explains to Francine that Bert was scared like she was, that’s all.  That they have to help him learn how not to be scared.  That sometimes when you’re scared you make the wrong choice.  You do the wrong thing.  That doesn’t mean that you don’t love the person involved.  It doesn’t mean you stop loving the one who does wrong.  It just means you have to work on not being scared.  

Lafayette isn’t there for that.  

But he wakes up in the morning, and Bert’s on Francine’s lap, and she’s petting his ears as she reads her books.  Ernie’s curled up by her feet.  She smiles hesitantly up at him, and he smiles back.  Makes the sign for ‘apples?’ and she nods enthusiastically.

Life slowly resetting itself.  Like nothing ever was wrong to begin with.

***

It’s not true.

John wakes up choking for air.  Struggling to breathe.  He flails like he’s trying to swim, but can’t get out of the water.  He dreams about his tank malfunctioning, strangely, about the pressure crushing him.  Water in the ears, water in his throat.

Lafayette pins him to the bed, hisses through the shouts-- _You’re all right.  You’re all right.  Wake up.  Wake up._

They’ll lay awake together.  Stare at the ceiling.  “It’s strange,” John whispers.  “The lies we tell people to keep the world moving round.” Lafayette squeezes his hand.  

“Don’t lie to me,” he requests.

“Never,” John replies.  

He smiles weakly, and goes on another dive two months later.  

He comes back looking like he’d lost twenty years.  Washed clean from the sea and brought to salvation.  He skips through the door, and he calls out for Francine.  Eager to show her what he bought her.  It’s a GPS system.  Fully equipped and trackable.  It attaches to a dog-tag looking charm he hangs next to his anchor pendant.  To be worn at all times.

He’s bought a satellite phone, so he can be reached when he’s not on skype.  He shows her the storm watch books he bought and all the information so she can track a storm and make sure he’s all right.

He gives her a roll of film, and he tells her she can come down with him if she wants to.  Lafayette’s already gone.  She can too if she likes.  “Let me show you how beautiful it is,” he asks her. She’s scared of him going beneath the water.  She’s scared of him drowning.  She never understood why he wanted to do it.  Why it calls to him.

Lafayette holds his breath as he waits for her response.

He never should have doubted it.  With her teeth biting her bottom lip, she says yes.

He almost wishes she’d said no.

***

 _There’s water in their veins,_ Lafayette thinks as he takes a photo of John and Francine on the bow of a ship.

Her blonde hair swaying in the wind.  John’s skin burned dark in the sun.  Wetsuits attached like parts of their skin.  

The water tried to claim John, and he still goes back in.  He can’t say no.  He holds out his hand, beckons his daughter and his lover, to join him.  Asks them to be with him as he sinks lower and lower.  To see the world he sees.  To watch with wide eyes as the dolphins hunt.  As the octopus swims.  As the sardines go back and forth in perfect schools.  Gorgeous.  Unfathomable.  His.

He checks and double checks his gear in a way he’s never done before.  Francine doesn’t notice.  She doesn’t know there’s a difference.  “It’ll get better,” John tells Lafayette.  “I’ll make it better.”

“I won’t let you drown,” Lafayette replies.  He reaches out and catches John’s face beside his palm.  He angles John’s head so they’re looking into each others’ eyes.  John doesn’t like eye contact.  He shifts his gaze.  Staring at Lafayette’s nose.  Close enough.  “I’ll go with you every time.  You’re safe.”

“You always keep me safe,” John sighs.

“And I always will...no matter what.”

“No more...deaths?” John asks, tilting his head up and kissing him.  He tastes like the sea.

“Only little ones,” Lafayette replies. It earns him another laugh. And finally, something like peace finally slides into place.

Their daughter’s leaning over the side of the bow.  Watching as the fish leap from the water and the gulls try to feast.  It’s not perfect.  

But no life is.

It’s theirs.  

And they’re making do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open to prompts on falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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